Three Nights
by rimz08
Summary: Three Nights in the Lives of Constance and d'Artagnan.
1. Chapter 1

_This is an attempt at a multi-chapter work. Three nights in the lives of Constance and d'Artagnan. Some fluff, some romance, some angst. Please read and review._

_Obviously I own nothing. I wish I did. But at least I get to have fun!_

He swears Constance has better instincts and reflexes than a Musketeer.

"I heard something." She says, shaking him awake.

They both listen in silence for a few seconds.

"I don't hear anything."

"I did."

"It's nothing. Go back to sleep." He tells her, burying himself under the blankets and cuddling up to her.

Just as he is falling back to sleep he feels a sharp jab to his ribs. He groans in pain, "Ow, that hurt. Sore ribs remember", he whispers.

He hears a slight rustling sound.

"Seriously, it's nothing. Try and sleep".

The rustling gets louder, now punctuated by tiny whimpers.

"Not my fault you get into fights with Red Guards all the time. Now get up. Your turn."

The whimpers get louder, turning into cries.

"Honestly," he says, swinging his legs out of bed, "You hear her before she even knows she's waking up."

Constance watches as he pads over to the crib and lifts the baby out. Her crying dies down, becoming a slow sobbing, as he holds her to his bare chest. "Shh, my sweetness," he whispers, rocking her gently "daddy's here. What do you want? Your mummy?"

Constance smiles as she watches the two of them. She sits up and holds out her arms to take the precious cargo, quickly putting the baby to her breast.

He climbs back into bed, "I did twice in a row now. Next time is yours. Plus I have to report early tomorrow."

"I am going to be doing every time while you are off musketeering. So I think the least you can do is each time tonight." He can hear the laughter in her voice, trying to disguise something else.

"Musketeering? Is that even a word?"

"It is now, because I said so." She gives him that look of defiance, the "don't you even think about arguing with me" look, and pushes the hair back from his face with her free hand. She looks serious now. The laughter is gone from her eyes.

"You'd better come back in one piece, you know, or I'll have your guts for garters."

"What a lovely thought. Thanks for that mental image." He raises his hand to trace her nose, to caress her lips. "Wake me up when she's done. I'll put her down for you."

He lies down next to her, hand on her leg, but now he can't sleep. The thought of leaving his girls for a long and (not that he is telling her this) possibly dangerous journey is scaring him. Not for himself, never for himself, is he scared, but for them. He knows she'd never ask him to change, to be someone else, but at times like these he wishes he could.

He listens to Marie sucking at the milk from her mother's breast. He moves his hand from Constance's leg to play with the baby's tiny fingers, remembering the first time he held her, three months ago, the first time he counted those tiny perfect digits on her hands and feet.

Constance pats his hand away. "Leave be. Do you want her to go back to sleep?"

He harrumphs an apology and returns to work on Constance's leg, tracing circles on her soft skin. This will be the first time he is leaving the two of them on a long journey. Treville has only given him short missions since Marie was born. But this time he has no choice. The King asked for him specifically, and when the King calls…

"She's done." He is startled out of his reverie. As Constance eases a sleeping Marie off her breast he crosses over to take her, settling her back in the wooden crib, covering her with the knitted blanket. He rushes back to burrow into the warmth of the bed. His hand begins to play with Constance's leg again.

"Go to sleep, I thought you had an early start." She says, teasingly.

"Some things are worth losing sleep over. In particular, you."

"Flattery will get you everywhere." She replies.

He moves closer to her, kissing her cheek, then her neck, planting small kisses on the hollow of her neck, feeling the pulse there beneath his lips. She makes a contented sound, clearly appreciative of the gesture.

Before he knows it he is kissing her, drinking in her smell, her taste, and she is responding with caresses. He sucks on her neck at which she pushes him away laughing.

"Stop it, you'll leave a mark." She cries out, laughter in her voice, giggles coursing through her body from the tickling feeling, swatting at him with her hands.

"Shush. You'll wake the baby. Then we'll have to stop."

And with that he rolls her onto her back and makes love to her.


	2. Chapter 2

_Here is the second installment, from Constance's POV. Hopefully d'Artagnan will be coming up next._

_I have so many plot bunnies in my head it is like a rabbit warren. I want to finish this one first though, let's hope the muse lets me._

2nd Night

Constance

Constance paces the room, rocking Marie gently and shushing. She is sure she will wear a hole in the floorboards soon, but right now she will do anything to get the baby to sleep. And herself for that matter.

Constance tries to calm herself, knowing that Marie's screaming is due largely to her own tension. She begins singing a lullaby that her mother had sung to her. She stares into the baby's green eyes, so like her own, watching as they finally begin to lose their battle against sleep, drifting closed before suddenly opening again momentarily. After four or five times Marie's eyes stay closed. Constance breathes a sigh of relief.

She remains standing, frightened that moving or putting her down might wake Marie. She puts her check to the soft hair on her baby's head, hair so like her father's, dark and silky. She breathes in Marie's smell, holds her tight, never wanting to let her go. Is this all she has left of him?

It has been too long. Ten days, he had told her, ten at the most. Four there and four back, so definitely no more than ten. All they had to do was escort an envoy. It was so easy only two of them were needed.

What he had neglected to mention was that the other two were sent off as a decoy with a fake envoy, to deflect interest. Porthos and Aramis took one road, d'Artagnan and Athos the other.

Twelve days have passed without word, the past two days seeming like infinity. On the ninth day, Porthos and Athos had returned, jubilant, clomping up her stairs with wine to celebrate, faces falling upon seeing her in the kitchen, alone with Marie.

"Sorry I'm not what you wanted," She said, teasingly.

"We are always pleased to see you Madame," countered Aramis, with a flourishing bow.

"'Course you are, you big liar." She retorted. "I'll bet you're hungry. I'll fix you some food."

Porthos' eyes lit up. Food always seemed to do the trick.

She had hidden her nerves, swallowing the nausea rising in her throat, and tried to eat with them, pushing the food around on her plate.

She felt a hand on her arm. Aramis was looking at her intently. "Don't worry, they'll be back soon." He promised.

"Enough of your charm," she said, shaking her head, "Now hold Marie while I clear up." She told him, thrusting the infant in to his arms. Aramis began to make clucking noises, tickling the baby under her chin and eliciting tiny giggles from her. Porthos moved to stand behind him, joining in the cooing. Two big softies, she thought to herself.

Her arms exhausted, Constance decides it is time to take a chance. She moves slowly to the wooden crib and settles Marie inside it, leaving her hands on the baby's back long enough to make the transition smooth, to leave a trace of warmth behind. Certain that Marie was sleeping peacefully left the bedroom.

Sitting at the table, head in her hands, Constance considers pouring herself a glass of wine. Maybe then she would finally sleep.

On the eleventh day they went to Treville. On the twelfth they started searching. So far, there has been no news. She walked past the garrison today, Marie in her improvised sling, hoping against hope for something. The musketeer on gate duty cast a sympathetic look in her direction. They all knew that sometimes Musketeers just didn't come back. Hadn't she herself met d'Artagnan just after one such incident? That's why Musketeers didn't marry, didn't have children. But her d'Artagnan wasn't just any Musketeer. She stared down their looks of sympathy, daring them to pity her, and walked on, head high.

But at night, in the quiet, in the dark she doesn't feel quite so sure any more. The tiny doubts creep inside her, inching their way towards her heart, growing bigger and bigger until they take her over. A tear falls from her cheek to the table top.

She is roused by a wail from the bedroom. Marie is awake again. As much as she wants to hold her and keep her safe, part of Constance can't move from the table, can't make herself care. Part of her just wants to sit there and never do anything again. The tears continue to fall and she does not move.

The wailing grows louder and louder, nearing hysteria now. She finally musters the strength and pushes herself up from the chair. She takes Marie and puts her to her breast, finally giving in to the tiny tyrant's demands.

As the baby eats hungrily Constance strokes her soft cheek. She still finds it hard to believe that she is a mother. For all of her marriage to Bonacieux she had wanted a child, thinking it would make her happier, maybe even bring love to the home. Yet as soon as she met d'Artagnan she knew that just a child was not enough. A child must be born from love. And this one certainly was. She thinks of the day that she told him he was to be a father, still little more than a boy himself. The smile that stretched out slowly over his face, how he gathered her up in his arms and held her tight, like she was the most precious thing in the world.

And she had swatted away his pampering, his efforts to take care of her, ease her load. No fussing, she told him, I'm pregnant, not dying.

She remembers the day Marie was born. The fear on his face, the very real fear of losing her in childbirth, as his mother had died giving birth to his sister all those years ago. The tears of joy as he held their child for the first time, the way he whispered to the baby, promising her oh so many things.

Somehow Constance's thoughts lull her to sleep, Marie still in her arms. She is awakened from her slumber by a noise outside. It is still dark, although the bird calls tell her that dawn is approaching. Her back aches from sleeping in the chair. She rises and carefully, without waking Marie, makes her way to the door. Captain Treville stands outside.

He doesn't beat about the bush. "Porthos and Aramis sent word. They have found them."

She wants to shout for joy but something in his face stops her. Something is not quite right. He isn't smiling, but he isn't crying either.

"How bad?" She asks. It feels so hard to form those two little words.

"We don't know yet."

"Where?" Again, she can't even get the whole question out.

"A day's ride away, they are at a nunnery where they have taken refuge. I ride out at first light."

She nods. She understands what he hasn't said. That if they haven't returned there is a reason for it. That one of them is hurt, badly, for them not to ride straight back to Paris. She only has to look at his eyes to know which one this is.

"I will join you." She feels her strength returning. She has a focus, a purpose.

"Constance…."

She gives him the look that has scared four of his best musketeers into total submission. "I have distracted guards to get them into a red guard camp dressed up like a prostitute, snuck into a house full of bandits to look after a baby, been captured by that evil woman and killed a man. Don't tell me I can't come with you to see my husband."

Treville swallows. He has no idea how d'Artagnan stands up to her. She scares the hell out of him.

He stutters in the face of her wrath and points to Marie.

"I've ridden with a baby before. And that one I couldn't even feed along the way."

He nods, once, in assent.

"Well then," she says, "I can't very well go in my nightdress now can I. Hold the baby while I get dressed." She carefully moves the sleeping child into his arms. Treville looks down at the bundle with a mixture of awe and total fear, trying to find the right way to hold her. All the wars he has been through have not prepared him for the responsibility of holding a tiny life in his hands.

"Stop wriggling her around," Constance calls over her shoulder, "You'll wake her up. Try not to drop her on her head and you'll be fine." And with that she disappears into the bedroom to get dressed and pack a bag.


	3. Chapter 3

_This has gotten a little out of hand. I never meant it to go this far. This story was meant to be lots of Constance-d'Artagnan fluff, thinking I couldn't write anything else, but I have been having too much fun. Next chapter will probably go back to fluffiness._

_Thanks for all your reviews. They really make me very happy! _

_I know that horses falling on people and Athos giving Constance away are not my own ideas. I have read them elsewhere. Apologies for any these and any other plagiarisms that I have unknowingly included._

**Chapter 3**

**2****nd****Night**

**The Boys**

"So, what do we have here then?"

A hand on his shoulder startles Athos, causing him to drop the spyglass in his hand.

"You took your sweet time." He says, turning to Aramis and Porthos.

"Well, you could have written." Porthos says.

"Oh, so sorry. Next time we are ambushed I must remember to stop and write you a note." Athos replies drily.

"Well, we are glad to see you out here. Thought it was going to be the two of us springing the two of you. Our odds have significantly improved." Aramis tells him cheerily.

The three of them are on a grassy ridge covered in bushes and shrubbery, which provides them with a vantage point on the manor house below.

"So, how did you find me?" asks Athos.

"We followed the cardinal of course." Says Aramis, as though stating the obvious. The three turn to look at the coach in the driveway of the great house. "Who else would be so determined to stop that envoy?"

"Well, things just got a whole lot more complicated," Athos tells him, clapping a hand on each of his friends' shoulders, "And I have not had a drink in far too long. Please tell me you brought some wine."

The three retreat into a grove of trees and Porthos passes a wineskin to Athos. The older man drinks long and hard before looking at the others again.

"Want to tell us what happened?" asks Aramis, probing gently.

"Does it matter? Envoy to get out of the country, d'Artagnan causing a distraction, me shooting a lot of musketballs, somehow the stupid idiot gets himself taken captive. Now we get him out, before the cardinal kills him."

"Are you sure he's still alive?" Porthos elicits what is commonly known among the musketeers as the "Athos-death-stare" and recoils, hands raised in front of him, "Okay, I get it. He's alive."

"Well you tell me why the cardinal would come all the way out here if he wasn't? Just visiting?" Athos spits at him.

"Where is here anyway? Why this place? And how did you find it?"

"The estate belongs to a nephew of the cardinal and is only about 10 leagues from where they captured d'Artagnan. Once I got the envoy away safely and came back it wasn't hard to work out."

"Since you probably played with him as a child, snorts Porthos.

Aramis puts a warning hand on Athos' arm and tries to calm him. He knows Athos is blaming himself, but that is not going to help them. "So now, we get him out. I presume you have done some reconnaissance and have a plan?"

"Yes, we move in at dusk."

"Just one question. How suicidal is this going to be?" asks Aramis

"Well, the odds are better now you two are here." And with that Athos returns to the wineskin, to while away the afternoon.

#######

It had seemed like a good plan at the time. Although they had said that about a lot of plans that had gone horribly wrong. This was another one to add to the books. Once they knew they were being followed, d'Artagnan, being closest in build to the envoy, swapped clothes and horses with him. Athos, who was a better shot than him, was to take out as many as he could from a distance, and d'Artagnan and the envoy would go off full speed in two different directions. Athos and the envoy arranged a rendezvous point. It was d'Artagnan's job, as the faster horseman, to keep the enemy busy for as long as possible.

It had been going quite well. He had them going around in circles after him until a musketball hit his horse (and he was still rather annoyed about that, he liked his horse), causing it to fall and him with it. He had banged his head and broken his leg in the process. When he regained consciousness he had made an effort to crawl away and find a hiding place. The choices being death alone in the forest or capture, he chose the forest. But they found the carcass of his horse, and after that finding him was easy. A pistol butt hit the back of his head and that was the last he knew.

First they took him to a barn. He woke up in hay and smelling of horse. He soon realized that they really believed that he was the envoy, and so kept talking to a minimum so they wouldn't hear his French accent. He had to give the others a head start.

After another blow to the head he woke up in a cold cellar. His first thought was to wonder why the bad guys always stuck their prisoners in cold, damp underground rooms. On reflection, he pretty much knew why, but that didn't make it any better.

His head hurt, his vision was blurry, he was freezing cold and his leg was on fire. Other than that he was pretty much fine. The most important thing, he figured, was to keep up the pretence as long as possible. That way they would keep him alive for questioning.

And question him they did, "question" being rather a euphemism. As they beat him he thought of Constance in her simple wedding dress, the white flowers in her hair, standing next to him in the chapel. He thought of Athos giving her away, the other two grinning like lunatics behind him, Captain Treville shaking his head in despair.

As they cut him he thinks of the day that Constance came to the garrison, cheeks red, eyes bright, biting her lip, nervously stammering out that she was having their baby. He thinks of Marie, imagines every part of her tiny pink body – from the soft under soles of her feet to the silky feel of her hair. When he is shivering from cold, he remembers the time he had flu and Constance fed him broth and snuggled in bed with him to keep him warm. He remembers telling her not to do it, to keep away so that she wouldn't catch the illness from him, and her clucking her tongue. He remembers her getting ill and the roles being reversed, although his broth was not quite so good.

He listens to his captors' conversations. It becomes obvious that they work for the cardinal, in fact the owner of his prison appears to be some relative of the man in red and black. They want to know what was said between him and the king, who his masters are, where he is going. They want to know everything about him (apart from his favorite food, that doesn't seem to interest them – in fact, they have not fed him at all). When they fail to get answers from him, he overhears that they will be sending word to the man himself. D'Artagnan knows that if the cardinal arrives, his time is up.

By the time Cardinal Richelieu graces d'Artagnan with his presence he is almost too far gone to care. Every bit of him hurts, he is shivering from chills and fevers intermittently and his vision is constantly blurred. Yet when the door swings back to reveal the man he hates most in this world, he finds some reserves of inner strength and gets to his feet (or rather foot, the non-broken one), using the wall for support. He remains in the shadows, half-turned away, hoping to drag this out as long as possible.

Luckily, by this point d'Artagnan also stinks, and Richelieu does not want to get too close to the dirty, bloody, smelly mess of his prisoner. So he keeps his distance, flanked by two Red Guards.

D'Artagnan hears the blood rushing in his ears, he feels wobbly standing up, but is not willing to back down. He is going to draw this out as long as he can. And he is looking forward to seeing the cardinal's face when he finally finds out that d'Artagnan has duped him again. It's the small things in life….

Yet at the same time he can't help but think about Constance, about how he is going to leave her alone, about never getting to say goodbye, never holding Marie again. He just hopes that the others will take care of them. He pushes the thoughts from his mind in order to stay strong.

"So, you are somewhat hard to break Monsieur. I am not impressed at having to come all the way here from Paris. I just hope you have something worthwhile to tell me."

D'Artagnan sinks further back into the shadows.

"You know, I will break you," the cardinal goes on, "no one ever stands in my way. I will know what you said to the king and he to you."

With an incline of his head he motions to one of the guards, who brings a blow to d'Artagnan's ribs. He bends over double, but after a few seconds straightens again.

"I'm getting bored now," says the cardinal in a sing-song voice. "That is not a good thing, take my word for it."

More blows rain down on him, but he won't give up. Not yet. His lip is bleeding, his cheek, a cut above his eye. He hears some ribs crack and sinks to the floor.

"Bring him to me." The cardinal sounds like he is getting angry now. He really doesn't want to get his hands dirty, thinks d'Artagnan.

The two guards grab him by the arms and drag him to the cardinal's feet, where he collapses in a heap. One of them pulls his hair to raise his head and he finds himself eye to eye with Richelieu. He smiles his characteristic cheeky grin as the cardinal's face turns almost purple. He is sure he can nearly see smoke coming out of the man's ears. Then a punch to the face renders him unconscious.

He is brought back to the world of the living by freezing cold water being doused over him. The cardinal is watching him from afar, silently fuming, hands curled into tight fists at his sides. Finally, he bends down towards d'Artagnan and whispers to him "I am going to kill you, slowly, and I am going to enjoy it." Then he turns on his heel and walks out.

#####

As dusk falls the three inseparables launch their plan. They tether the horses as close to the houses as they can and skirt around the house, keeping low under the windows. As they pass under one large window they hear the cardinal's voice. Athos raises a hand to stop and they crouch down low, listening. The cardinal is screaming at some person or persons unknown, issuing forth a stream of expletives. They make out bits of the words "idiots", "stupid", "fools" and "numbskulls". The three look at one another, understanding that the cardinal has been lured here on false pretences. If they hadn't been so worried about their friend, they might have even laughed.

They continue round the house and knock at the servants' entrance, immediately delivering a blow to the head to the footman who answers the door. They proceed to knock out cold any other servants they encounter, while a few maids cower in the corner of the kitchen. As they proceed they pick up knives and anything else useful they can find to hand, a letter opener, a candlestick, some rope.

They go straight for the cellar. Of course he will be in the cellar. Where else would you keep a prisoner – the guest bedroom? To do so they have to pass by the room where Richelieu is in the middle of a heated discussion with his nephew. The door is ajar. With only a look necessary to communicate, the trio work in perfect harmony. Aramis closes the door silently just as Porthos jams it closed and Athos ties the doorknobs together with the rope. The men inside immediately run to the door and being to bang on it. This will buy them some time, but not enough.

Porthos holds off a stream of servants and guards as the other two make their way to the cellar. Luckily the cardinal had only brought a small group of men, so he can keep them off single handedly. Dank, cold and wet (typical musketeer territory, Athos thinks darkly), they make their way through a maze narrow corridors, running through anyone in their way (or hitting them over the head with the candlestick). After what seems like forever, although in reality is only a few minutes, they have found the makeshift cell, the door stands open.

Both of them stop dead in their tracks. D'Artagnan, shirtless, has been tied to the ceiling from his hands. Three men are beating him, one with his belt. They are so shocked by entrance of the musketeers that Aramis and Athos have the opportunity to kill two of them immediately. While Athos takes on the last one, Aramis cuts down d'Artagnan and eases him to the floor in a crumpled heap on the floor. He drops to his knees in front of his friend and gently lifts his chin.

D'Artagnan pulls back at the touch and struggles to open his eyes. Aramis lets out the breath he didn't realize he was holding when he sees that d'Artagnan is alive and recognizes him.

"How bad," asks Athos, "dusting himself after dispatching the last fighter."

Aramis only has to look at him for Athos to understand.

"A'mis….'thos…." D'Artagnan manages to croak out. Athos drops to his friend's side. He wants to scream and shout and hit the walls, seeing what has been done to their youngest brother, but he knows that right now that won't help anyone. He settles for a rather rude word.

"'ve c't it fine," D'Artagnan stammers out. Athos has to smile at the lad's attempt at humor.

Athos and Aramis take D'Artagnan's arms and place them around their shoulders. He cries out in agony as his foot makes contact with the floor and they quickly understand that the only way they are going to be getting him out is by carrying him.

They make their way back towards the noise of fighting. Leaving d'Artganan with Aramis, propped up against a wall, Athos goes to join Porthos in the hallway. Yet just as they manage to send the last of their opponents to the floor the doors burst open and the cardinal and his men come rushing out.

Athos is ready for them. He dives straight towards Richelieu, bloody sword at the cardinal's throat. Porthos shudders, the death stare is back.

"We are going to walk out of here, and no one is going to follow us, or his eminence dies." He says, enunciating each syllable very clearly. The cardinal, feeling the point of the sword digging deeper into his throat, gives the tiniest of nods. He raises his hands to stop anyone moving closer.

Porthos takes it as his cue and scoops up d'Artagnan. Athos, sword to the cardinal's throat all the while, forces Richelieu to back towards the door. He knows there will be no going back from this. Richelieu will never forgive this. When the others are out and saddling up the horses, he finally lowers his sword and runs. Shots ring out behind him, one piercing his shoulder, but he keeps going, jumping on to his horse and cantering off into the night behind his friends.

D'Artagnan, finally safe in the arms of Porthos, groans as each movement of the horse causes tremors of pain to course through his body. But he is chuckling. Porthos, worried that he is delirious, looks at him closely. As d'Artagnan loses consciousness with a slight smile on his bloody face, Porthos is sure he hears him whisper, "smoke c'ming out 'f 'is ears."


	4. Chapter 4

_Well here it is. The final chapter. I really enjoyed writing this story and even more than that your reviews! Thank you all._

_I hope to start a new story soon. But before that I may actually have to do some work and take care my kids!_

Chapter 4

"Constance, come to bed." D'Artagnan calls to her, "I'm cold."

She sighs heavily and leaves her place where she has been hovering over Marie's crib to join him in the bed.

He reaches out to her, to draw her close, to reassure her, but the movement causes him pain and he unwittingly lets out a groan. She places a hand on his forehead.

"Do you have fever?" She asks, concerned.

"No, I'm just cold. And I want my wife in bed with me." He pouts at her.

She gets in under the blankets next to him and takes his hand in hers.

"Fine, but no snuggling. You heard what Aramis said."

"Aramis said to try and keep still. He didn't warn me that I would be denied the warmth of a woman's touch."

"Next time you'll think twice before nearly getting yourself killed," she retorts, but he can see that she is teasing, her eyes twinkle in the moonlight coming through the window. She moves closer to him and he wraps an arm around her.

She leans in to kiss him, keeping her body far away from his so as not to hurt him too much. Just as their kisses become heated she hears his sharp intake of breath. They part and he drops back onto the pillows, breathing heavily, eyes tightly shut.

"'m sorry." He mumbles.

She cuts him off with a finger to his lips. "Nothing to be sorry for my love," she says, stroking back his hair, easing him into sleep, "when you're better you will just have to expand enormous energies making it up to me."

"Oh, I plan to." He replies.

"Shush now," she tells him, "it's been a very long day. You need to sleep."

####

Constance slowed down Captain Treville's pace, needing to stop frequently for the sake of Marie. As a result the captain sent on ahead the surgeon and a small group of guards. Although she is exhausted by the journey she will not show it, and when they finally reach their destination races up the stone steps, only to encounter the massive form of Porthos blocking her way in the entrance hall.

"Constance!" His mouth is wide open upon seeing her.

She tries to get around him but every time she moves, he moves with her.

"Get out of my way Porthos," she growls.

Captain Treville appears at her side. "Constance," he tries to calm her, "I'm sure you need to rest and that Marie needs to be taken care of. Let us find somewhere for you to recover a little."

Marie has begun to whimper in her sling, upset by her mother's tone of voice. Constance extracts her from the cloth sling and kisses her head. She then thrusts the baby at Porthos.

"She fed an hour ago. I'm sure you can manage. Now, which way?"

Porthos, looking frightened half to death, inclines his head up the stairs, and Constance lifts up her skirts and sets off at a run. She hasn't got all the way up when she encounters Athos, arm in sling, running straight into him. He gasps in pain but uses his good arm to hold her in place. Porthos looks up from below at the spectacle as Athos and Constance employ their best stare tactics to face each other down.

"Constance, the surgeon is still with him. Wait until he is finished and d'Artagnan is comfortable."

"Thank you for your concern, but as you well know, I am not squeamish. I've patched the lot of you enough times."

But Athos does not let go. He holds her firmly in place. She raises her hands to his chest and beats on him with her fists but he doesn't give in. After a few moments the tears start to course down her cheeks and she stops hitting him, collapsing onto his chest. He holds her in a one arm embrace, staring at the others below him with a knowing look. "Hush now, let it out," he whispers into her hair, feeling soft strands tickle his cheeks. This is the closest he has ever come to a sister. "He's not out of danger yet, but it isn't so bad either. He will pull through."

Constance finally feels the strength which has gotten her through the past day seep out of her and collapses onto the hard stone steps. Athos goes down with her, holding her tight.

####

The arrival of three handsome musketeers (and a fourth who turns out to be equally handsome once cleaned up a little) is the most exciting thing to have happened in the convent. Ever.

For Sister Francine it breaks the monotony of the simple life she chose. Their convent is on the pilgrim route and their doors are always open to the sick and needy. She herself has even acquired something of a reputation as a healer in the region. They have had their fare share of the dying, those making a pilgrimage in the hope of a cure, of infertile wives, of sinners, but this is a whole new ballgame.

Sister Francine and a number of the nuns run out of the convent at the sound of hooves, to be greeted by the sight of three musketeers on horseback, one carrying an unconscious man wrapped up in his blue cloak. She shows them to a simple room and sends off her sisters to bring water, bandages and the like. She immediately sees that one musketeer has a musketball in his shoulder, but he waves away their attentions, standing on one side of the bed of his gravely wounded friend while opposite him another one begins his work. She watches as the man's fingers flutter gently over the immobile body, feeling for injuries while not causing pain, his eyes betraying deep concentration. She understands his acts and watches, silently. Finally when his assessment his done he looks up at his friends.

"Porthos," he says to the tallest of them, "Ride to the nearest village and send word to Treville. We need a surgeon." She sees the tall man gulp, swallow down his questions and run out to obey the order.

As soon as he is gone, his friend sinks to his knees by the bed. The wounded musketeer strides around the bed and pulls him up, staring into his eyes.

"Aramis," so that is his name, she thinks, fitting, it reminds of her love, and his hands bespeak such love, "You need to pull yourself together and help him, now!"

"Athos, it is one thing for me to sew up a wound or remove a musketball on the battlefield. Never have I had to deal with such injuries as these, and on one so young. I cannot…."

"You have no choice. Think of Constance, think of Marie!"

"He has broken ribs, head wounds and goodness only knows what internal injuries. The leg must be reset by a surgeon. His fever is dangerously high. I don't know where to start!" Aramis looks so lost and Athos looks about to lose his temper.

This is her cue to act. "If I may, gentle sir," she makes her presence known, coming in between the two of them, "I have some experience in treating the sick, although not the wounded. Allow me to assist you. I and my sisters will clean his wounds and treat his fever while you will help your wounded friend. After that we will see what else can be done for Monsieur…"

"D'Artagnan," Aramis completes her sentence. He looks at her and nods his head. Athos, although reluctant agrees also and moves back from Aramis. He turns to Sister Francine.

"We will not leave this room however sister. Please do not read our fear as mistrust of your order, but we do not know if we have been pursued and we must protect him with our lives."

"Of course, he is your friend."

"No sister, he is our brother in all but blood." Athos replies.

As Aramis patches up Athos, Sister Francine and two nuns clean the layers of dirt and grime from d'Artagnan's body, exposing the full extent of his injuries. They place cool cloths on his head and chest, bring herbs and tinctures.

When Aramis has finished he works he joins Sister Francine's side.

"Thank you." He tells her. She merely inclines her head a little, not wanting him to see her blush. "Some of these wounds require stitching, that I will do. Although, perhaps you could assist me. You would learn from it a new skill."

Sister Francine watches with fascination as he works. She passes him whatever he requires and on a few occasions their hands brush against each other, feather light touches that make her stomach flutter.

It is dawn before they are finished their work. Aramis looks on the verge of collapse and Athos has given into his pain and blood loss and fallen asleep on blankets placed for him in the corner of the room.

"All we can do now is keep his fever down and pray," says Sister Francine. "Sleep Aramis, I will watch him."

Aramis can only nod in ascent and join his friend on the floor.

Sister Francine draws a chair to the bedside and replaces the wet cloths with cooler ones. She watches the rise and fall of this man's chest, listens to the snores of the other two. She is in the same position when the third, Porthos, returns, only to join his brothers on the floor, snoring loudest of them all.

When the sun is already high she shakes Aramis lightly. He wakes with a start, hand on his sword.

"My apologies, sister, you startled me."

"No apology necessary, sir. But my other duties call me."

"Of course, sister. I will take it from here." He rises up, stretching, from between the other two and takes her seat.

She pauses at the door and looks back.

"Aramis," she says, "I have seen many things in my life, but never anything like this. Who could…"

"It is best you do not know, gentle sister. It is enough to say that there are both devils and angels in this world."

She nods and leaves.

Sister Francine is at matins when the commotion of the woman's arrival takes place. Leaving the chapel she runs into Porthos carrying a baby and talking heatedly with another man. Neither of them seem to know exactly what to do with the screaming bundle, so she stretches out her arms and takes it. Looking down at the baby she understands that this is his child, and the woman's shouts must be those of his wife. What a brave heart such a woman must have.

She gives the baby into the care of her sisters, pries the woman away from Athos and leads her to one of the convent's sparse rooms. There she helps her to wash and clean up in silence. She brings Constance clean plain cotton clothes.

"You are Constance?" she asks. When the woman looks at her suspiciously she quickly continues, "I am Sister Francine. I have heard them talk of you." Any further conversation is interrupted by the door opening and Aramis' entrance. He throws himself into a chair, followed by the other two. He looks exhausted, with black rings under his eyes. Sister Francine wants nothing more than to take him in her arms and smooth down his mop of unruly hair. Instead she remains standing beside Constance.

"The surgeon had to re-break his ankle and re-set it. He has broken ribs, internal bruising and a lot of cuts. The head wound is a bit of a worry, but he has a thick skull, so hopefully he'll be fine. We need to control his fever and keep him as still and pain-free as possible."

"Just the usual, run of the mill then," Says Constance, forcing a smile onto her lips.

"Pretty much."

Despite being prepared by Aramis, Constance isn't ready for the sight that greets her. Her husband, her d'Artagnan, is never that still. He is always on the move. She longs for him to open his eyes and give her his cheeky smile, to lean against the wall, thumbs hooked in his belt, looking cocky, she longs for the sound of his sword clinking, of his cloak swishing.

His skin is a pale color that she doesn't recognize. His chest is covered in bandages, his face littered with cuts and bruises. She can make out the lump of the splint on his broken leg. She sees the beads of sweat on his brow and immediately takes the cloth from the bowl of water next to the bed and sponges it down.

The other three hang back, lurking, but not for long. Sister Francine watches on as they move in around Constance, forming a protective circle around her, an arm on her shoulder or her hand. She listens to their easy banter and understands that this is the truest family there can be.

###

It seems like an eternity until he wakes. Treville leaves as soon as he has had his report, riding to Paris as fast as he can in order to do some damage control with the king and cardinal. The surgeon departs the next day, saying he can do no more, nature must take its course. The head wounds were serious, he may or may not wake. The fever may or may not kill him. Constance wipes his brow with cool cloths what must be hundreds of times as he alternately sweats and then shivers. They change his dressings, trickle water into his throat, only to have him retch it out, and still he does not wake. Aramis grinds more herbs and makes tinctures and pastes. Porthos paces and Athos broods. Eventually their presence drives her out of her mind and she screams at them to go and find something better to do with themselves. She shoos them out of the room. Tells them to ride into the nearest village and get themselves drunk and not come back before morning.

She barely sees Marie. The nuns seem reluctant to give her up, cooing at her and bouncing on their knees incessantly. Life in a convent must be very dull, Constance thinks.

After two days, sitting at his side, her hope is waning. As she finishes feeding Marie in the chair next to his bed she feels the tears falling from her eyes. She kisses the top of her baby's head and then places her on the bed next to her father. Marie waves her little arms and legs around, gurgling happily to herself. Constance feels the sun warming her back as it streams in through the window. She sits back down and takes his hand in hers.

There are so many things she wants to say. How much she loves him and needs him. Instead she finds herself talking to her daughter.

"Yes sweetie, this is your daddy. He's an idiot. He has to go and make such a fuss to get attention. If he'd wanted a holiday in the country, he could just have said."

It's then that she sees his fingers moving. She looks at his face to see his eyelids fluttering, as though dreaming. She puts her hand on his cheek and strokes it, shushing him as she does to Marie. It seems to work and he quiets down. In another few moments his eyes open and shut immediately again in the face of the sunlight. She rushes to close the drapes.

"Here, try again now."

"'stance," he manages to get out, his throat dry and rough.

Never in her life has she felt such a sense of relief. She bites her lip and swats away the tears with the back of her hand. She brings a cup of water to his lips and dribbles some into his mouth.

"Yes, that would be me," she whispers.

He grasps her hand and squeezes it. Marie lets out another of her little squeaks and he turns his head towards her. She sees the smile spread over his face as he drifts off to sleep again.

When the other three tumble in, hung over and noisy, she raises a finger to her lips. They can't conceal their grins.

"How was he?" ssks Aramis.

"He knew who I was."

"Good, no brain damage then." He announces.

"Told you he has a thick skull," says Porthos.

"'ts not as 'ick as y'rs." Comes a voice from the bed.

"Idiots, you've gone and woken him up. It's not enough I have one baby to look after?" They can all see that she is joking and relief is written all over her face. They approach the bed and for the first time in days Athos manages to smile.

"'thos, y're hurt", says d'Artagnan, taking in his friend's bandaged shoulder.

"A mere scratch," replies the older man.

"Sorry, says d'Artagnan.

"Apologize for that again and I may punch you," declares Athos, "On the other hand, we need to talk about your hare-brained schemes."

"Not my finest moment. Thank you all for getting me out."

"That's what we do," declares Porthos, "and it was kind of fun to see the cardinal that mad."

D'Artagnan chuckles and then grimaces in pain.

Aramis reaches for a draught by the bed and encourages him to sip some of it. "Rest now and try not to move, there's a good boy."

"P'thos, y're eye? You g't hurt too?" Constance turns to look at the big man, who indeed has a horrible black eye forming.

"Oh this? It's your wife's fault. Time you learned to keep her in line."

She smacks him on the arm.

"Well, if you hadn't forced us to find an inn, Porthos would not have had to cheat at cards, get caught and begin a fight. It is perfect reasoning." Aramis declares.

Once again, d'Artagnan drifts into sleep with a smile on his face.

Over the next days their mood grows lighter. His fever finally breaks and he remains awake for longer and longer periods. They manage to raise him up and feed him soup and he takes sips of water. Aramis makes up pain draughts which Constance gives him at night, as much as he protests that they are unnecessary. The three men play cards, Porthos attempting to invent new cheating tricks which will not get him caught quite so quickly.

Sister Francine visits them now only to bring food and replenish water or other supplies. Whenever she enters the room she feels Aramis' eyes on her, as she passes him in the corridor sometimes they brush against each other, ever so slightly. Yet she also notices that Athos sees it all. When the nun and Ararmis are in the same room Athos endeavors to stand between them. At one point Constance comments on it to Porthos, who shrugs his shoulders, well aware of Aramis' womanizing but not understanding since when Athos has had a problem with it. She suspects this has something to do with that other time they were in a convent. When she asks Athos about it he tells her that Aramis doesn't do well in convents, in a tone that tells her that he will answer no more questions.

One day, Porthos and Aramis play fighting on the grass outside, Constance finds herself alone with Athos, the two having barely spoken since she attacked him upon her arrival.

She looks at him. His eyes are downcast, arms crossed over his chest, typically defensive. "Out with it then," She says.

He looks up at her, his eyes dark.

"I'm sorry." He says simply.

"Whatever for?" she asks.

"For not protecting him, for not bringing him back to you in one piece, for failing you."

"Oh Athos," Constance says, rising and going to him, "I know what he is and what you are. You are not to blame. He is his own man and makes his own choices. No one knows that better than I." She puts her arms around Athos and holds him close to her. "None of this is your fault. Do you hear me? If anyone's to blame, it's him for getting himself caught."

"Oy," says a weak voice from the bed, "he is awake and he is wondering why his best friend is hugging his wife."

"Oh shut up you trouble maker," says Constance, placing herself on the edge of the bed next to him, easing him up and helping him to drink.

####

The quiet routine they have established is broken by the arrival of a royal coach, with a note from Treville. The king has sent this coach to bring them back and would like an audience with d'Artagnan, to thank him personally. Aramis is fuming, pacing the bedroom, muttering that his patient is not yet ready to travel and that this may cause a setback in his recovery. Porthos tries to pacify him, reminding him that this is the king and it is in his capricious nature.

And so they must depart.

Sister Francine helps Constance to prepare herself, her husband and the baby. They give d'Artagnan a sleeping draught so that he will not feel the pain of the journey as the bad roads jostle his broken bones. As she goes about her duty, Sister Francine already feels the loss of Aramis.

Part of her is looking forward to the quiet. Enough of the boots clomping up and down her stairs, the mess and the screaming baby. But another part of her knows that her life will never be quite the same again.

As she bids them goodbye it is Athos who lingers to thank her, he the one who has said almost nothing to her throughout their stay. His eyes tell her of hurt, of his love for his brothers, and that whatever he does, it is to protect them.

The coach stops at a number of inns on the way, breaking up the journey. Constance is glad of it, for both d'Artagnan and Marie's sakes. Although it is still taxing on them all and she is relieved to see the outskirts of Paris.

The coach, flanked by three musketeers on their trusty steeds, is met by a group of guards who escort it straight to the Palace. No protests work, the king will see his most favored musketeer and thank him now. Aramis shakes his head in despair and Athos fumes in silence. Porthos hopes that maybe there will be a reward in it for them all.

The king, with Treville at his side, receives them with excitement in his eyes. He loves such stories of bravery and courage. He is also relieved to hear that his envoy left the country safely.

The king, springing up from his chair and walking around congratulates himself on his choice of musketeers, "I knew he was a loyal one, didn't I Treville? Yes, I saw it straight away. Quite the best of my musketeers."

He then seems to actually take in d'Artagnan's state, supported by Athos on one side and Aramis on the other.

"And are you well sir?" He enquires of d'Artagnan.

"I must admit to your majesty that I have been better," a response which elicits a slight chuckle from his friends.

"A chair, we must bring him a chair," commands the king.

D'Artagnan shakes his head, "I could not presume to sit in his majesty's presence."

"Well, if it's that or fall, let's sit shall we?" Says Athos drily, easing him down into the chair brought by a servant.

At that exact moment the doors are flung open and the cardinal, with his retinue enters. D'Artagnan visibly stiffens at his entrance.

"Why Cardinal, you are just in time. See here one of Treville's musketeers, on an errand of state was caught by bandits and held hostage. Such a wonderful tale."

"Full of wonder indeed, sire," says the Cardinal, "I would love to hear more of this tale." The last word is dripping with sarcasm.

D'Artagnan attempts to rise in the face of his enemy, but two forceful hands on his shoulders pin him down.

Treville, ever a man of tact, takes the opportunity, "Sir, I believe that Monsieur d'Artagnan has had a long journey and must be in need of rest."

"Of course, captain, how silly of me." The King approaches d'Artagnan, removes a ring from his finger and presses it into his hand. This time his friends help d'Artagnan to rise and bow.

"I hope that you shall remain my loyal servant for many years."

"I too, your majesty."

"Come Cardinal, let us withdraw and I will tell you the story," says the king merrily, as they leave the room.

###

At the palace Constance is feeling dirty, messy and under-dressed. Her feelings only worsen as she is conducted through a maze of corridors to a small sitting room where she finds herself face to face with none other than the queen.

She drops into a low curtsey, trying to bat down the strands of hair that have come loose from her bun with her free hand.

"Please rise," says the queen, "and sit with me. I would thank you."

"Thank me, your majesty? Whatever for?"

"It is rare for a king's musketeer to marry and have a family. You must be a very special woman."

Constance blushes. Marie begins to fuss in her arms.

"May I?" asks the queen.

Constance, lost for words for pretty much the first time in her life, hands Marie to the queen.

"She is quiet beautiful. Her father's eyes, I see. And your hair. A wonderful combination."

Their interview is interrupted when the door is flung open and a young boy comes running into the room, followed closely by a lady-in-waiting.

"Apologies, your majesty. I will take him away."

"No matter. Leave him. Come Louis, see the pretty baby."

The toddler approaches his mother and inspects Marie, looking thoroughly unimpressed. The queen hands the baby back to Constance and takes Louis on to her knee. She whispers something in his ear and the boy smiles.

Constance has never seen the royal child up close, and certainly never seen him smile. When she does, she understands all too clearly why Aramis has a problem with convents.

"I wanted to thank you for looking after all of them." Says the queen, very quietly. The look that passes between the women needs no words. Under the grime of travel and with her messy hair, Constance thinks that she is luckiest woman in the world.

D'Artagnan is pleased to be back in his own bed. His eyes fall closed as soon as his head hits the pillow. Aramis checks him over to be sure that no further harm has been done, before taking up residence in the lodger's room that was once the Gascon's. Concerned that the cardinal may seek revenge, they have decided to remain on guard until the man of the house is healed.

In the middle of the night Constance is woken by a muffled cry and a hiss. Immediately alert she sees d'Artagnan standing by Marie's crib and rushes to him.

"What are you doing out of bed?" She demands.

"I couldn't sleep and I thought I heard her. I had hoped to let you sleep."

"Come on, back to bed with you." She eases him back into bed and then picks up Marie, who has begun to whimper.

"Here," she says, "drink this so you can sleep." She brings some of the sleeping draught to his lips.

He shakes his head.

"I feel so useless. I can't do anything. I have to keep you safe from the cardinal."

"The cardinal is not going to do anything to the king's favorite. He is far too clever for that. Now stop this nonsense and drink."

After he does she sits next to him on the edge of the bed, nursing Marie. She strokes his hair as his eyes begin to close.

"Now listen. You are not useless. Stupid, hotheaded and brash, yes. Useless, no. Marie and I have many uses for you. But the next time you decide we need a holiday, let's just go the seaside, ok?"

"Just as long as you stop complaining that I never took you on a honeymoon."


End file.
